The blue-white glare of the tungsten arc is a predatory thing. It eats the shadows in my booth until there is nothing left but the puddle of molten Inconel 715 and the rhythmic pulse of my own heartbeat, which, if I am being honest, is currently thumping at a ragged 85 beats per minute. I shouldn’t have checked the internet this morning. I spent 45 minutes staring at a glowing screen, typing ‘rhythmic hand tremors after caffeine’ and ‘early symptoms of peripheral neuropathy’ into a search bar that offered me nothing but worst-case scenarios and ads for supplements I don’t need. It’s a specialized kind of torture for someone like me, Jordan H., a man who earns $145 an hour to be more precise than a machine, to realize his own biology is becoming a variable he can no longer control.